


Taking, Giving

by ElwritesFanworks



Series: Charlie and Lucien's Respective Issues [4]
Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Awkward Sexual Situations, Boundaries, Breakfast in Bed, Charlie has issues about masculinity and how that relates to gay sex, Charlie makes breakfast, Charlie uses his words (albeit grudgingly), Communication Failure, Feels, First Time, Hair-pulling, Insecurity, Internalized Homophobia, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Lack of Communication, Lucien being a gentleman in bed, Lucien has poorly timed war flashbacks, M/M, Negotiations, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rough Oral Sex, Submission, War flashbacks, You Have Been Warned, a war flashback involving death and gore and war trauma, domestic!Charlie, headcanon!flashback, it is reasonably graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-25 13:02:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9821681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: Charlie, emboldened, takes what he wants on his own terms. Lucien finds the experience illuminating in ways he was not expecting.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'll proofread when I'm dead. Or after I've had some sleep. Whatever comes first. :P  
> This will be 3 chapters, with sex in chapter 2 (angst and feels also) and fluff and feels in chapter 3. I'll post when I can, as quick as I can, given my school schedule right now. Cheers and hope you enjoy.

* * *

Charlie’s not sure what to expect, after Lucien’s… offer, but it’s not for things to continue on as if nothing has happened. He’s both frustrated and elated, because while he’s grateful for the proof that the doctor is capable of being discrete, he’s also distinctly aware that, since the conversation, he’s been unable to stop thinking about what he’s going to do. He knows what he should do, and he knows what he’d like to do, but those are two distinctly different things.

That Lucien is so calm throughout is unbelievable, really. He allows the odd smile to linger a bit, and he’s even freer with his praise than usual, which is rapidly weakening Charlie’s resolve. At work, he’s insufferable, but only in the usual Lucien way, which is a comfort. No impropriety means no discovery, which means Charlie can consider it.

But what is there to consider? That’s the question, really. Charlie isn’t sure he wants to be buggered. In fact, he’s fairly sure he _doesn’t_ want to be, but what else would Blake want to do with him? There are things, of course, loads of things, but Charlie suspects Lucien wants his arse – he did mention deflowering, after all, which sounded far grander than just a bit of petting.

Hesitating on the proverbial threshold, Charlie stares at his fist, as if staring will make it somehow easier to raise the appendage and knock on the closed door of the good doctor’s bedroom. The young policeman is reminded of Hamlet – he’d had to read it in school. The unknown horrors of death versus the known horrors of life feel insignificant compared to the uncertainty of pushing open that door and facing what lies behind it. Will Lucien still be game? Hell, when faced with the reality of it, will Charlie, himself?

Going to bed alone seems, somehow, even worse.

Clinging tightly to his modest crumb of courage, he knocks, softly, just twice. It’s all he can manage before fear grips him again and he nearly bolts, but the sound of footfalls stops him dead. The door swings open. The hall is bathed in faint golden lamplight. Lucien looks dramatic, noble, lit in such a fashion.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Charlie whispers, and understanding passes over Blake’s face.

“Please, come in.”

Charlie does – no escaping it now – and Blake locks the door behind him. The man’s been up, reading, if the open book on the nightstand is anything to go by. He settles onto the mattress with a groan, running a hand across his weary face.

“Sorry,” Charlie says, as realization dawns. “Would you rather sleep? I can –”

“It’s quite alright, I assure you.”

There’s a tense pause. Charlie can’t bear to look at Blake, there on the bed.

“You can sit, if you like.”

He pats the mattress next to him. Charlie takes a shaky step forward.

“I’m not sure I –”

“Charlie – I’ll say this now, and it holds true – permanently. I will _never_ harm you, or engage you in anything you don’t want to partake in wholeheartedly.”

Charlie dares to meet his eyes, then, and they’re warm and fond – too fond for something like this. It’s not meant to be an emotional activity – just an experience.

“You have nothing to fear.”

That’s a bit of an exaggeration, but it’s true as far as Blake is concerned – Charlie knows he poses no threat. The world beyond the bedroom, on the other hand…

“I suppose we’d best get to it, then,” Charlie mumbles halfheartedly. The doctor frowns.

“Are you sure? We don’t have to –”

“Yes! It’s just – bloody – it’s _nerves,_ Doc. I swear, it’s just nerves.”

He swallows hard, makes eye-contact. Commits.

“I want this.”

Blake nods, and there’s heat in his eyes as he sits back on the cushions.

“Right,” he breathes and he waits for Charlie to set the pace. Charlie can’t move. Blake’s chest is rising and falling so slowly – he’s breathing so calmly, relaxed in his own bed, while Charlie feels like he’s about to jump out of his own skin and go mad from the strange yearning stinging all over like some scourge of malevolent insects. The top two buttons of Blake’s pajama top are open, revealing a triangle of skin. Charlie reaches out before he knows what he’s doing, faltering when the tips of his fingers brush warm, soft flesh and coarse, fair hairs.

“It’s alright,” Blake murmurs, and Charlie slips his palm into the older man’s shirt, throat tight and dry.

He’s hot to the touch – Charlie’s not sure why he expected otherwise. It feels less alien than he expected it to, which is, in itself, quite strange.

Slowly, absurdly slowly, Blake leans in, until Charlie can feel his breath against his face.

“May I kiss you?”

Charlie nods, and is rewarded, finally, with a proper kiss. None of this close-lipped stuff fit for an auntie’s cheek at a church function. A real, knee-buckling, mind-numbing kiss. If he’d been standing, Charlie’s fairly sure he’d have collapsed.

The doctor’s good at it. Measured. He’s methodical, almost surgical in his precision. The rasp of his beard against Charlie’s skin is prickly, but it’s gentler than it has any right to be, because Blake is so, so careful.

Charlie both loves and hates this. He doesn’t want to feel like a piece of fine china – he doesn’t want to feel frail or small or any less a man than Blake is himself. The kiss feels good, but it also feels clinical in an off-putting way.

“Wait,” he breathes when they stop to catch their breath. The older man pauses non-judgmentally, giving Charlie time to articulate his thoughts.

“I want more than what you’re giving me right now.”

It comes across as pushy and a bit rude, but Blake takes it well.

“What exactly did you have in mind?”

Charlie falters. He doesn’t know what he wants – only what he doesn’t want. The doctor must see the panic in his eyes because he touches Charlie’s cheek gently, just below his left eye.

“What is it?”

“I… I can’t… you won’t understand –”

“Try me.”

Charlie sighs. Takes a deep breath.

“I don’t want to be weak.”

When he meets Blake’s gaze, the older man’s face is unreadable, but certainly not hostile. Hesitantly, Charlie continues.

“I don’t want to be all soft and… and girlish. I know what blokes say about me – lived with it all my life. I’m ‘fair,’ so my mother calls me. Pretty’s more like it – I’ve been called that, and worse. But I’m not… I’m not some delicate little flower that needs to be handled with kid gloves.”

Something unreadable tightens in Blake’s face, creases his brow.

“Charlie, I’m sorry – I can see how my behavior may have been misleading. I have no desire to make you into someone you’re not, or put you in an uncomfortable position.”

Charlie nods. He believes Blake when he says it.

“I don’t want you to bugger me.”

Blake nods.

“That’s fine. But what _would_ you like?”

Again, Charlie falters. It’s one thing, saying what he dislikes, but saying what he likes is far more challenging.

“Is there anything, in particular, that you want to try? Anything at all? I promise, I won’t think less of you.”

Blake expects an answer. Well. If he expects one, then Charlie will give him a mighty one.

“Your mouth. Would you...?”

It comes out breathless, a touch unsure and overeager. The doctor doesn’t so much as blink. His feathers remain unruffled.

“I’d be happy to.”

 _Oh._ That was it. No great argument, no pleading, no passive aggression. If anything, Blake looks... pleased.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which there is sex, angst, and the respective horrors of Charlie's internalized homophobia and Blake's PTSD-riddled mind.
> 
> Next chapter will have reconciliation, a much needed conversation, and resolution.

* * *

Charlie watches, astounded, as Blake nonchalantly rises from the bed and comes around to kneel, resting one hand on the young man’s knee.

“Pass me a cushion, would you? The floor is rather hard.”

Charlie does as he’s told, numb with the disbelief that apparently, this is, in fact, happening.

“Swing your legs over the side, here. That’ll be easier for us both.”

It’s all Charlie can do to comply, wonderstruck, to lift his hips when he’s asked, and shuffle out of his clothes. He comes to his senses when his pajamas slip past his ankles to the floor and he is suddenly chilly and naked from the waist down. He’s still soft, but Lucien doesn’t seem to take it personally, merely leaning in to gently exhale, breath warming over him, ruffling his pubic hair, tickling.

“If you change your mind at any time –”

“Do it.”

The doctor’s hands are steady as he lifts Charlie’s penis, cradling it, squinting at it as he edges forwards. He exhales again, mouth open this time, and the gust of air is moist as well as hot. Charlie’s eyes are wide as Blake carefully extends his tongue, lowers his head, and takes him into his mouth.

It’s immediately apparent that this is not Lucien’s first time having a prick in his mouth. Moreover, it’s clear that he’s done this enough to know to mind his teeth, and to move his tongue, and to softly hum from time to time, sending vibrations through Charlie’s entire body. Charlie’s had this done before, but never by someone who knew how to do it well. Maybe it comes from experience – it could just as easily come from Blake being a doctor. Either way, Charlie is grateful for it, growing hard in the older man’s mouth with a speed that banishes any doubt that he’s every bit as deviant as the men he’s arrested over the years for this very same act. He wonders, if they knew, would they be sympathetic to his burden, or would they spit at him, curse him for locking them up for it. Probably the latter.

Blake bobs his head further, sinks down until the head of Charlie’s prick meets the back of his throat, and then _swallows._

“Oh _fuck –_ ”

The words are less a whisper and more an involuntary sound made as the air’s knocked out of his lungs. Charlie’s not one for cursing, not normally, but the expletive escapes him as he’s shaking and bucking hard, as his hands are tangling, sweaty, in the doctor’s hair before he can stop them, tugging, pulling, holding Blake in place. Blake, in response, grunts around his mouthful. His eyes roll upwards to meet Charlie’s and it’s _gutting_. His stare is intense, but not at all disapproving, and once he’s sure he has the young man’s attention, he raises both his hands, palms up as if in surrender, before clasping them behind his back and relaxing in the policeman’s grip.

Charlie can’t, initially, understand this gesture. Lucien has gone quite still, eyes falling shut, nostrils flaring slightly as he breathes, deeply and calmly. Then, impatient, he yanks experimentally on Blake’s hair and the doctor moves with him. He rocks his hips forwards, _hard,_ and Blake makes a soft sound at the force of it, but doesn’t falter or unclasp his hands. He’s subdued and silent, seemingly content to let Charlie use his mouth however he likes, and that observation burns like fire in the young man’s gut, goes to his head and makes him dizzy. To have that sort of power over a man like Blake is something he’s never dreamed could happen, not like this.

It’s going to end shamefully quick. Charlie gets rougher still as he nears his peak, and Blake makes no protestations, even when he’s dragged forwards so brutally that he chokes and gags and his chin rasps harshly against the young man’s scrotum. It’s that sensation of pleasure-pain that has Charlie shuddering and filling up the doctor’s mouth in spurts, clinging, white-knuckled, to the older man’s hair, short nails digging into his scalp. He shudders again at the sensation of Lucien swallowing and finally pulling back, brushing his lips tenderly along Charlie’s hypersensitive sex as he does so – not quite a kiss, not quite a caress. It’s intimate – too intimate, and Charlie opens his mouth to protest but falls silent when he sees the wetness in Blake’s eyes, on his cheeks.

The doctor hides it quickly, coughing, turning his head and cracking wise about old knees and hard flooring, but Charlie knows what he saw.

“Why are you crying?”

It’s the wrong thing to say, and it comes out badly, disgust and accusation. Charlie regrets it immediately. Blake’s eyes are wide as they stare at him, before the look of startled hurt is replaced by an icy shard of anger, and then, worst of all, a disconcerting… nothing. The doctor’s face is empty as he rises from the floor, and Charlie feels small, feels scolded, feels that disappointment or even outright hatred would be better than this.

“I’m tired,” Blake says at last, throat hoarse. Charlie takes a moment to realize why, and then recoils at the memory of having being so violent in taking what was offered. “Physiological response. Just a bit of eye-watering, is all.”

He sounds like he means to sound cheerful, but his heart isn’t in it and the words fall flat.

“I can suck yours too, if you want,” Charlie offers desperately, suddenly terrified of leaving Blake’s bedroom. _Don’t send me into the hall. Don’t open this door and then lock it again – I’ll never be able to forget how it felt to –_

“No, thank you. I think I’ll go to sleep. I have an early start tomorrow. Lots of patients to see.”

Charlie doesn’t want to leave – even as he’s putting his clothes right, he’s hoping he’ll be asked back. Even as he’s shuffling to the door.

“Doc, I don’t –”

“Goodnight, Charlie.”

He says it with a smile, but it’s hollow and false, and it haunts Charlie as he shuts the bedroom door behind him. He sways on his feet, feels, suddenly, like he might be sick, and as he steadies himself against the wall, he hears the muffled sound of Blake pacing, cursing, and – if he has to guess – kicking the nightstand. Then silence.

Then weeping.

As Charlie lies awake in his own, cold bed, he wonders which of those two sounds was worse.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist finishing this today. It's late, so I'll probably be making spelling edits and such over the next day or so.
> 
> Trigger warning for: a distressing war flashback, discussed in some detail. This is a headcanon war flashback relating to Lucien's experiences with death, gore, and sex, but the part about prioritizing care to the less-wounded during battle is the result of a conversation with a relative of mine who is a veteran and who knew a nurse with severe PTSD from that very practice being so fundamentally difficult for medically-minded people.
> 
> ALSO: This is set in S3-ish, but I'm not contending with the whole Lucien has hepatitis thing. Also, if anything has subsequently been vastly affected by S4, keep in mind that Canada is a series behind. We don't have S4 yet, and my Mother will hate me if I read up on spoilers because I'll forget what is in what season and probably tell her and ruin it. (A mistake I've made before. Mea culpa.)
> 
> But anyway. Have some headcanons about Lucien's war service, and Charlie being cute and domestic, because damn it, he's adorable.

* * *

 

Lucien is still wide awake at sunrise. His eyes are sore and swollen, and his hand still shakes a bit as he wipes them on his sleeve.

He couldn’t feel worse if he tried.

So much for inducting Charlie into sexual freedom of expression. After his little performance, Lucien’ll be lucky if the boy doesn’t develop a complex.

He hadn’t even noticed he’d been crying, at first, and that’s what’s so frustrating. That even now, after all this time, memories can just… just creep up on him, without warning.

Charlie’s just too young. Something about it, that wild, youthful roughness, beautiful like a raw gem, unpolished, earthy, hit Lucien like a freight train. Even now, he’s still fixated on it, the memory of the policeman’s chest flushed red and heaving, the twitching of the muscles in his thighs, the distinct taste of maleness – fresh sweat and semen – on Lucien’s tongue. The cushion-softened floor beneath his knees had vanished as Charlie came, and all at once, he was on his knees on foreign soil with a mouthful of a soldier’s ejaculate. The air in his bedroom changed – all these years later and Lucien still can’t articulate the subtle ways in which Eastern air feels different. He could smell the native flora, mingled in his memory with blood and split intestines and some poor sod in the next bed retching as he caught a glimpse of his mate’s guts blown open and –

and…

Lucien is in his bedroom. It is morning. His hand is still shaking, like it hasn’t in years. Since before he took over his father’s practice. He tucks it underneath his thigh until it stops, breathes in and out, counts in his head.

Then the door opens and he damn near shits himself.

It takes the doctor a minute to recognize that the intruder into his sanctuary is, in fact, Charlie Davis, looking sheepish and carrying a tray of…

“Breakfast?” Lucien says, staring dumbly at the plate. Fresh fruit, coffee, two eggs, four slices of buttered toast, countless rashers of bacon, three small sausages, fried mushrooms, baked beans, a single scone sitting off to one side with a jar marmalade beside it.

“What’s all this?” the doctor murmurs at last, because it’s all he can think to say when faced with such an impromptu feast. Charlie’s face flushes in a very becoming way and he averts his eyes, embarrassed.

“An… apology. For… for whatever I did to upset you.”

Lucien’s throat tightens at that – the boy looks so wretched.

“Shut the door, please. I’d like to talk to you, privately.”

Charlie looks like he’d rather be hanged, but he nods and sets the tray down on Lucien’s bed, turning to shut the door as he’s been told to. Once privacy is assured, he turns back around to face the doctor, fretfully wringing his hands.

“Charlie, you did absolutely nothing wrong last night. I need you to believe that.”

The young man looks up, visibly confused.

“But… you were crying.”

He says it under his breath, like he’s ashamed on Lucien’s behalf. The older man nods and sighs.

“I was.”

To buy himself time, he nibbles a slice of toast. Charlie waits for him to continue, brow furrowed, the corners of his mouth turned down.

“I told you before, my… previous encounters with men were during my time in the service. I also mentioned that two of the men I fraternized with were killed.”

Charlie nods, still perplexed.

“One of those lads I lost touch with. He was stationed elsewhere when he died. The other fellow… his death was different. I didn’t know him well. He was fresh-faced – handsome. He approached me, as I recall. Asked me if I fancied a late-night smoke. Once he’d got me into the shadows behind a building, he asked me to fellate him.”

Charlie’s expression is softer now. He takes a hesitant step forwards, and Lucien moves the tray so that there is room for the young man to sit upon the bed.

“I enjoyed it. He was rough and uncompromising and I enjoyed it. After he was done, he thanked me and left. Said his unit was moving on but he’d see me again if he could. It wasn’t romantic – it wasn’t serious – but… I enjoyed it. Enjoyed him.”

Lucien takes a steadying breath.

“I saw him again. Him and his unit. They brought back the wounded – hoped we could do something. Medicine in war is a different beast – the rules are all backwards. When you become a doctor, you expect to help those in the worst condition first – to prioritize the needy. In war, you’re told to prioritize the minor things – scrapes and bruises, whatever can be fixed quick. Patch the boys up and send them back out to get their heads blown off.”

Charlie’s staring at him, wide-eyed now, and Lucien realizes he’s shaking again, sweat beading on his brow. He reaches for Charlie’s hand and squeezes, hard enough that the boy flinches, but doesn’t pull away.

“I did my duty. I followed orders. I patched up all these blokes who’d been grazed with bullets, or hit with minimal shrapnel, or who’d tripped over their own bloody shoelaces and skinned a knee, and all the while, this man – this man whose prick was in my mouth less than a fortnight ago – is laid out next to me with his intestines _in his hands._ And he’s calling to me, and it’s this horrible, pitiful sound – it doesn’t even sound human – _Doc,_ he’s saying, _Doc_ – because he’d never so much as asked my name – _I don’t want to die, Doc. You’ve got to help me. I’ve got a girl back home – I’ve got a life. Please, please, please…_ ”

Charlie’s thumb rubs against his own, and Lucien shudders, eyes clenched shut.

“I couldn’t do anything – even if we’d had the luxury of time, it was a mortal wound. So I ignored him – there was nothing else to do – not then, not with so many men in pieces. I did my job, and I blocked him out, and then, I – I moved too close, because he caught my shirt and he held on and _made_ me look at him. And I did. And time… time just stopped… and dimly, dimly I’m aware that there’s blood on his lips, and it’s coming out of his mouth when he speaks, and I should do… something… but I can’t. I’m frozen in place.”

Lucien falls silent. It’s Charlie who speaks, his own voice rough and thick.

“What happened then?”

The doctor shrugs.

“He asked me if he was going to die. I said he was. He asked if he could hold my hand, and I let him. He asked me what this weird, blobby thing was that had fallen out of his body, and I told him it was his stomach. And he says, ‘and this dark thing, up here?’ and I say, ‘that’s your liver.’ And he goes ‘huh’ and then dies.”

Charlie looks away, tracing patterns on the bedspread with his free hand.

“Jesus,” he breathes, after a while.

“So, you see, it wasn’t you. You were lovely and handsome and delightful. For what it’s worth, I am truly sorry for ruining what should’ve been a good experience for you.”

Lucien withdraws his hand and Charlie lets him.

“It was,” he mumbles. “A good experience, I mean. Until I thought I’d spoilt it.”

It’s the doctor’s turn to look ashamed.

“You didn’t. I only wish I’d been able to treat you as you deserved.”

Charlie huffs out a skeptical, small sort of laugh.

“And how’s that then?”

“Like… well, like you’re all those things you claim to hate being, I suppose. It’s wrong of me, I know, given how you feel about it, but I would love to be gentle with you, to take my time with you… not because I see you as weak, but because I see you as a good-hearted young man with a whole future ahead of you who is, for the moment, alive. It’s a precious thing, to be alive. It suits you.”

It’s an odd sort of compliment, but Charlie seems to understand.

“Here,” he mutters, gesturing. “Eat. Before it gets cold.”

His eyes, though. His eyes are softer. Fond.

“I can’t possibly eat all this. You’ll have to help me. I don’t know what got into Mrs. Toohey this morning.”

“Nothing,” Charlie replies. “She didn’t –”

He falls silent, sharply, but not before giving himself away.

“You,” Lucien breathes in wonder, “you made all this? God, you must’ve been up all night.”

“Not quite all night,” Charlie answers, smiling. It’s a shy, intimate smile. Lucien likes it very much. He spears a piece of fruit with his fork and hold it out.

“Peace offering?” he grins, and Charlie rolls his eyes, but he parts his lips willingly enough.

“Mm – ‘d’luhk t’do’sh ‘gen,” he says as he chews. He swallows and wipes his mouth on his wrist. “Sorry. I said, I’d like to do this again. With you. The eating breakfast and the… last night. But preferably with less… unexpectedness.”

Lucien takes his time to respond.

“I can’t guarantee I won’t find myself back there, from time to time. It’s not voluntary, on my part. It just happens.”

“I know. I understand better, now, I think. Just… tell me, if it happens again. And don’t make me leave. I don’t like being made to leave.”

He looks so earnest, as he says that last, that Lucien can’t refuse him.

“I won’t make you leave,” he concedes. The smile that breaks across Charlie’s face is disarmingly joyous, radiant and sunny and beautiful. When Lucien tastes that smile, he is sure he is the luckiest man in Ballarat.


End file.
